by John Creasey
Two guards questioned him before he was allowed in; another, carrying both night stick and pole, questioned him when he was inside. It was like entering a closely guarded palace. A youth in honey-brown uniform with violet sash and stockings carried a message up the great circular staircase and within two minutes was hurrying down again, saying, ‘Mr. Francis will see him!’
Slowly James mounted the stairs. Dwarfed by the magnitude of the building, trying desperately not to be overimpressed, he was nonetheless on edge when a door on the right opened. Next moment all sense of intimidation disappeared, for Timothy came hurrying out, both arms extended.
‘You are as welcome as a man can be,’ he declared. ‘Come in, come in.’
Except that his thick hair was nearly white, Francis Furnival looked little different from glimpses that James had caught of him several years earlier, and still retained the honey complexion he had had in his youth. He dragged himself around the big desk, shook hands, said that Timothy had been talking about their hopes and plans; no one could have been more friendly.
When they were all sitting down he smiled and said, ‘While I could hope that you have come to see if there is an opportunity for you to work at Furnival House I am not persuaded that this is likely - at least not yet! How can I be of service, James?’
‘I am really here with a message from my stepfather,’ James began, and saw the other’s face light up. ‘He would very much like to come to the opening of the new Furnival Docks.’
Soon, Francis was saying warmly, ‘I hope you will tell him that this will be one of our greatest pleasures. Three Furnival ships from Bombay and Kiamari will be docking that night, to baptise the new docks, as it were. One of them carries mail and there should be some from our sister Anne. John could not have chosen a more fortunate time. And you may be assured that we shall exert ourselves in every way to make his visit easy. You yourself must tell us where to put ramps for that ingenious chair of his!’
There was no doubt of the warmth and sincerity this man felt towards his brother, yet James knew there was a deep chasm between them which had never fully been bridged.
As he replied, something of the puzzlement he felt showed in his face, and Francis asked, ‘Is there some doubt about bringing the chair, James? D’you think he will be self-conscious and embarrassed?’
‘In no way, sir, or he would not have agreed to come,’ James said. After a moment’s hesitation he went on in a gruff voice, his cheeks turning red. ‘It puzzles me that you should make both me and Sir John so welcome and show such obvious pleasure yet at the same time be so often in conflict.’
‘Ah,’ Francis breathed. ‘I can understand your bewilderment because we have never been able to sink our differences. If they were matters of policy we would have no problem, but the clash is one of principle. The rest of us do not believe in a national or even a city peacemaking force; we are convinced it would infringe too deeply on the freedom of the individual. John would sacrifice a measure of this freedom to combat crime in a way which might not succeed even if it were tried.’ Francis leaned back in his chair. Few lines betrayed his forty-six years, although his eyes crinkled at the corners as he asked, ‘Have you committed yourself to one view or the other, James?’
‘Yes, sir,’ James answered. And when both Francis and Timothy waited for him to go on, he added quietly, ‘There was a big fire in the Strand a few nights ago, when some enraged sailors broke up a brothel. Had troops not arrived there would no doubt have been a greater fire. But for firm action next day, when Mr. Henry Fielding called out many more troops, four thousand sailors together with rough elements from the mob might have caused a most serious riot. Had two or three Bow Street men been present at the outset they could not only have prevented the fire altogether, but could have averted the following day’s trouble. I believe that the property of all people should be protected by the government, sir - so I am with the Fieldings.’
‘A brothel keeper and a dozen prostitutes and no doubt some pimps and bullies - are their rights to be protected, too?’
‘In this case, as I have said, much damage and a serious riot threatened. But in any case I believe that the rights of all should be protected, sir. Where is the line to stop, sir, if there is not to be one law for all? Who is to be judge of who must obey a law and who may defy it?’
James fell silent, acutely aware of the scrutiny in Francis’ eyes and of Timothy staring at him with uncommon intensity. The slow relaxation of the older man’s expression convinced him there was no disapproval.
At last Francis said quietly, ‘Your reasoning and the manner of presentation does you much credit. If you change your views about the need of a professional peace-keeping force there will always be a position of distinction for you here.’
‘Thank you, sir, you are very kind.’
‘I perceive that if you do not waste your efforts or your talents you have a bright future. Now! Timothy, why don’t you take James to see the terrace and, indeed, show him all over Furnival Tower House? The tour may impress him with the great scope offered here.’
He stood up and leaned across the desk; his parting grip was very firm.
‘You know, Jamey, you have almost made me a convert,’ Timothy declared as they stood on the terrace and looked out over the seemingly unending panorama of London. James was amazed at the scene of the thriving activity on the river and at the docks, the mass of buildings spreading now in all directions. ‘If I didn’t know that more than half - nay, three-quarters - of the people of London were well fed and happy and unaffected by crime or criminal tendencies, I would be with you,’ Timothy finished.
‘If you could convince me that there were a thousand families wholly free from the influences of crime I might agree with Francis,’ James said. ‘But that day will be a long time coming.’
He left Furnival House with barely time to arrive at Bow Street by three o’clock, and to make sure that he was not late he hailed a hackney carriage from a stand just outside the Furnival building. He was at Bow Street a little before three o’clock and Winfrith took him immediately to Henry Fielding, who was in a small private room near the one James’s mother had once shared with John Furnival.
James was surprised to see how ill and weak the magistrate appeared, but there was no weakness in his voice when he said, ‘James Marshall, the day will come when my brother or I will call upon your services, but at this time we feel the need for men with extensive knowledge of the slums and criminal haunts of London. To take on a single new officer without such knowledge could be disastrous. So I beg of you, do what you can in court for any accused whom David Winfrith deems worthy of your help, and be prepared for the day when I can welcome you as I would dearly love to now. And meanwhile, pray say nothing in public about the Bow Street men.’ The lined face twisted in a wry smile as he added, ‘Officially, they do not exist.’
James hardly knew how he excused himself and withdrew. It had not occurred to him that he would be rejected, especially in such a way; that what had become a great dream would be smashed so swiftly.
He was empty of hope when he left the court and walked the streets of London for so long that he grew footsore. By the time he reached Timothy’s rooms he was damning himself for what he had said to Mary and hating himself because in his hurt he had not told Henry Fielding that John Furnival would like to visit Bow Street. He forced himself to go back and, by chance, met John Fielding, who moved with such freedom and assurance that it was difficult to realise he was blind. James told him about Furnival, praying that John Fielding meant what he said about the wholeheartedness with which Henry would welcome his predecessor.
When eventually James saw Timothy, the other’s delight about the visit to the pageant was so great that for the first time the raw hurt of disappointment began to ease.
16: THE RIVER PAGEANT
‘My dear Sir John,’ Henry Fielding said, taking Furnival’s hand, ‘I cannot recall a greater pleasure. This gives me hope that you might o
nce more take your seat on the bench.’
‘And none with greater right,’ John Fielding declared.
Blind though he was, he found his way about with great expertise and he too shook Furnival’s hand. Warned in advance that Furnival would not be able to converse and would like only to be wheeled about the court and the downstairs rooms now occupied by the Fieldings, they extended not only great courtesy but obvious respect to the man who had once been chief magistrate. Furnival sat through the hearing of two cases, one against a man charged with the rape of a young girl, one against a youth charged with causing the death of another by unlawfully hurling stones at him while he had been helpless in the stocks. When the first part of the visit was over, the Fieldings entertained their guests in the room at the back of the offices, ‘their’ room to Ruth for so long. For the occasion a long table had been placed the full length of the chamber, and this was covered, if sparsely, with hot and cold meat pies, oyster stew, baked potatoes and baked carrots, and bread as good as any ever tasted at St. Giles.
If James ate sparingly it was because he did not want to eat too much of this food, provided with such sacrifice. In any case, at Furnival Tower House a great banquet would be prepared for a vastly greater number, and he could eat there without the guilty sense that he was robbing someone else. He was fully aware that John Furnival was deeply affected and could imagine how he longed to be able to express his thanks. His own regard for the Fieldings rose enormously; no one could have shown more concern and affection than they for old John.
At last the eating and drinking of wine and beer were at an end, and by four-thirty a carriage came to take James and John and Ruth Furnival to Furnival Tower House. Leaving the big table, James saw his mother glance at the door leading to Bell Lane, and he followed her to find, with common astonishment, a crowd of at least a hundred people, men and women, mostly in rags, lined up outside.
It was Winfrith who, coming to join them, said quietly, ‘After you have gone these people will come in and finish the food. It will be of interest for you to know that every one of the Bow Street men as well as all the magistrates contributed to the expense incurred. That is how well Sir John is remembered.’
‘I will tell my father,’ James replied, ‘and I know I can express his very sincere gratitude for all that has been done.’
He saw his mother glance at him sharply, saw Winfrith’s eyes widen as if in surprise, but gave neither any thought as Henry Fielding came to escort his mother to Bow Street. For a second time James was astonished, for a much larger crowd had gathered here, obviously good-natured, and containing nearly as many women as men. All were watching with fascination as John Furnival, sitting in his chair, was being raised on boards by two chairmen. Once the chair’s wheels were level with the door of the carriage, the chair was turned slowly so that he was pushed inside. Only a carriage with an especially wide door would have allowed this, and compared with the great strain and effort of getting him into and out of the carriage before, this was ease and comfort itself.
Once he was inside there was a burst of cheering and shouting.’
With Ruth and James opposite him, the carriage set off, and James had never ridden in one which jarred the passengers so little over the uneven roads. Nothing which could be done to make the ride easier for his father—
He stopped in the middle of his thinking: astounded. That was what had surprised his mother and Winfrith: he had for the first time in his life called John Furnival his father; and it could only be because he had thought of him as such!
The older man was leaning back against a cushion. In the darkness of the coach, he looked pale and tired but the one good side of his mouth was curved in what might have been a smile of contentment. Still pondering his ‘discovery’ and not sure how he felt about it, James glanced through the carriage window and received a second, very different kind of shock. Amongst a crowd waiting at the corner of the Strand until such time as the horse and carriage traffic should slacken so that they could cross was Mary Smith. She looked very stern as she peered ahead, and in more ways than one reminded him of his mother. He had no idea whether she had glimpsed him; if she had, she was making sure that he did not know.
Two of the House of Furnival guards took advantage of a lull in the traffic to halt a number of sedan chairs so that their carriage could turn into the Strand. Mary was lost to sight on the turn. James sat back, aware of the interested gaze of his mother but in no mood to talk.
If only he had spoken differently to Mary at their last meeting. Now it was too late.
Mary Smith knew who was in the carriage because she had been among the crowd in Bow Street to watch the party come out. Her father had business at a Wesley congregation on the south side of the city and so had not been able to accept an invitation to attend the dinner; she suspected that he had arranged the business deliberately so that he could avoid mixing with old friends at a time when his clothes were patched and the heaviness in his heart showed so markedly in his expression.
But she was not thinking of her father then, only of James Marshall. She could not remember the time, even when they had both been children, when she had not loved him. But when, four years before, she had last seen him, he had been so unbelievably tall and handsome, while she had still been so plain, that she had tried to put him out of her mind. And until he had come on that fateful night, she had almost forgotten him, or at least had been able to think of him without longing.
On the night of his first visit, hope had flared within her because his concern had been so evident, and although she had warned herself that nothing would come of this interest, that her deep love for him would never find response, she had lived in the clouds of fancy until after his last brief call.
Now, she was installed as the housekeeper of the Weygalls. He knew only that they lived above their general merchandise shop near Long Acre. And now he was driving off in a magnificent carriage to a world Mary would neither know or share. She did not believe he had seen her. Now she had shopping to do, mostly for fabrics to make dresses for the three daughters of the Weygalls, and it was to Hewson’s in the Strand that she was heading, while fighting back her tears.
Among others who had watched the celebration at Bow Street was Gabriel Morgan, the oldest of the Morgan brothers and one of the gang that had attacked the young girl. At that time he had no thought that James Marshall was the man who had put him and his friends to flight, ending in the ignominy of the cesspit. He was going to one of his regular meetings with others of the group soon, and among those present would be Jacob Rackham, who had become their leader.
‘Jamey, a number of us are going up the river to see the sights,’ Timothy McCampbell announced. ‘Will you come with us? Your stepfather will be well cared for and your mother is already surrounded by a positive horde of aunts and cousins. If you don’t come with us you will miss one of the greatest spectacles on earth.’
‘Then I would be a fool to stay behind,’ James said.
It was now after six o’clock, and the excitement of arrival was gone, yet a glow of elation remained. For a while he had been in a whirl, meeting Furnivals of all ages, as well as elderly men like Sir Cornelius Hooper, who had for two years been Lord Mayor of London, and was said to be the only one in thirty years who had proved incorruptible. He had also met a succession of beautifully dressed young women and was aware that several had eyed him with speculative interest. At least two of the young ladies were Timothy’s sisters and one, fair-haired Penelope, had caught his eye more than once.
He followed Timothy through a maze of passages and staircases until they approached a small inlet from the Thames by a flight of stone steps leading to a gaily decorated barge in which at least a dozen youths were already crowded and four watermen sat ready at the oars. A fifth helped Timothy and James into the barge, making it sway slightly, then cast off.
James saw gates opening slowly between the inlet and a much wider section, not the river itself but so close to it that,
as the barge swung through, a great expanse of the river showed.
He caught his breath.
From this level, only two or three feet above the surface, the panorama of London’s river was revealed in a way it could seldom be. The great sailing barges, the clippers, even three men-of-war with their great figureheads, towered high above the host of smaller ships, and each one seemed to be in full sail; whilst moving in and out of this armada of sailing ships were hundreds of small craft: some, tiny cockleshell dinghies with only one man at the oars; some, brightly painted barges. It seemed like water bedlam, a mass of uncontrolled movement with a cacophony of sound, from loud voices to squeaking winches, firecrackers to bells and wooden rattles used by the watchmen to raise alarm by night. Among the small craft, however, were many in which stood liveried watermen employed by the great shipping lines as well as by the port and river authorities to make order out of chaos, moving ships from one position to another, arranging anchorage, working with colleagues on the quaysides to tie the larger ships to stanchions.
But still more than all this magnificence, making the spectacle absolutely breathtaking, were the flags and pennants of every imaginable size and colour. Every tiny ship, even the smallest dinghy, had its flag bravely flying, and it seemed as if there was no room for other craft to move.
